Chapter 4: The Battle Begins

“You can choose whatever material you want to fight each other,” the matriarch declared, her voice echoing through the arena like a spell cast over the room. She stood with her arms outstretched, as if offering them a divine gift—freedom to choose their own destruction.

Without hesitation, Dorian moved. His eyes locked onto a long, curved blade resting among the scattered weapons on the ground—a katana. He stepped forward, the steel whispering as he lifted it into his hands. The weight was perfect. Balanced. Silent. Deadly.

A stark contrast to what came next.

Jaxon walked toward the other end of the arena, blood still soaking through the slashes on his back. He ignored the swords and daggers, his gaze focused on a black case resting on the weapons table. With a smirk, he flipped it open and pulled out a sleek .45 caliber pistol.

Cold steel. Loud. Unforgiving.

The matriarch clapped her hands slowly, her eyes burning with delight.

“How poetic,” she purred. “One chooses the elegance of tradition. The other, the brutality of modern power. Blade against bullet. Art against instinct.”

Dorian took a defensive stance, gripping the katana with quiet discipline, while Jaxon casually cocked the gun, aiming it with a wild gleam in his eyes.

“Let the game begin,” she whispered.

The arena fell still again, but this time it was the calm before the storm.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

The only sound was the steady drip of Jaxon’s blood hitting the sand-covered floor, and the faint crackle of torches lining the stone walls. The distance between them felt like miles, though it was only a few paces. But in that space lived years of rivalry, resentment, and wounds deeper than any slash or bullet could leave.

Jaxon broke the stillness first.

With a snarl, he raised the .45 caliber and pulled the trigger—once, twice.

Bang! Bang!

Dorian moved the instant he saw the shift in Jaxon’s stance. His body twisted, fluid and sharp, and the bullets missed by inches, one slamming into the stone behind him, the other kicking up dust near his feet. He charged forward, the katana flashing under the arena lights like a silver streak of vengeance.

Jaxon stepped back, firing again.

Bang!

This one grazed Dorian’s arm—hot, searing pain—but he didn’t falter. He gritted his teeth, breath sharp, and closed the gap.

Before Jaxon could pull the trigger again, Dorian struck.

The katana slashed upward, aiming not to kill but to disarm—cutting across the side of Jaxon’s forearm. The gun clattered to the ground, blood spraying in its wake.

“Fucker!” Jaxon shouted, stumbling back, cradling his injured arm.

But Dorian didn’t move in for the kill. He simply stood there, breathing heavily, blade lowered. His eyes—so calm, so infuriatingly unreadable—met Jaxon’s with something that looked almost like disappointment.

“You don’t know how to fight without hiding behind something,” Dorian said quietly. “A weapon. Our mother. Your name.”

Jaxon’s face twisted with rage. “Shut the hell up!”

He lunged at Dorian barehanded, wild and reckless.

They collided—fist against blade, fury against control.

Above them, the matriarch watched, leaning over the railing with gleaming eyes, lips parted in delight. Her sons weren’t just fighting—they were unraveling. And she savored every second of it.

Jaxon lay there, stunned—not just from the fall, but from the hesitation.

He blinked up at Dorian, chest rising and falling, pain flaring through his injured arm and bruised ribs. The katana hovered just inches from his throat, but it never came down.

Dorian didn’t move. He just stood there, eyes unreadable, face calm like always.

And Jaxon hated him for it.

“What?” Jaxon spat blood on his lip. “Too scared to finish it?”

Dorian didn’t answer.

That silence—that maddening silence—cut deeper than any blade.

Jaxon’s jaw clenched. “You think this makes you better than me? That sparing me makes you noble?” He sat up slowly, grimacing as he leaned on one arm. “You think I don’t see it? That look in your eyes. That pity. Don’t you dare feel sorry for me!”

Dorian’s grip on the katana tightened, but still he didn’t strike.

Jaxon laughed bitterly, the sound hollow. “You know what I see when I look at you, Dorian? A coward hiding behind control. You wear that calm like armor, but you’re just as broken as me. Maybe worse. At least I don’t pretend.”

There was a pause—thick, electric.

Dorian lowered the blade slightly, but his eyes never left Jaxon’s. “I’m not pretending,” he said quietly. “I just learned how to survive without destroying everything around me.”

Jaxon’s smile twisted. “And look where that got you. We’re still in the same fucking cage.”

Above them, the matriarch leaned forward with predatory interest, her eyes narrow and glittering.

Something was shifting—and she could feel it.

“I just… I don’t want to end like this,” Dorian said, his voice low but steady, his eyes flickering briefly to the katana in his hand. He took a deliberate step back, the weight of his brother’s words still heavy in his mind, but he didn’t want this to be their end—not here, not like this. He lowered the blade, his movements smooth, almost mournful.

He felt the sting of Jaxon’s words deep within, but he knew better than to show it. He had lived with Jaxon’s venom for too long. And yet, despite everything, a part of him still couldn’t quite bring himself to strike the final blow.

The matriarch watched with keen eyes, her gaze sharp as a knife.

“Oh, I like this,” she purred, her smile growing wider, more twisted. “I’m very entertained. Aren’t all of you my little entertainers?”

Her voice echoed through the arena like a command, and the guards, as ever, remained silent—waiting for her next word, her next move. They were nothing but shadows, drones to her whims.

She raised a hand lazily, as if swatting away a bothersome fly.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” she continued, her gaze sweeping over both her sons. “So, continue, my dear sons. Let the show go on.”

Dorian didn’t move right away. His eyes lingered on Jaxon, studying his brother, the once-familiar face now a mask of anger and defiance. Despite everything, the same blood ran through them both, the same dark legacy. And that, perhaps, was what made it all so damned tragic.

He could feel the weight of their mother’s gaze, heavy and suffocating, bearing down on him.

Jaxon, still on the ground, gritted his teeth, hands trembling. His pride was raw, bleeding, and in that moment, Dorian could see it—the desperation. It was something he hadn’t seen in years. But it was there. Jaxon wasn’t just fighting for survival. He was fighting for something more.

Dorian tightened his grip on the katana.

This isn’t over, he thought, his mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. He took another step back, forcing himself to breathe. But I won’t make it easy for her. Not for her satisfaction.

Above them, the matriarch’s smile never wavered. She was watching, savoring, as if they were nothing more than puppets in her sickeningly orchestrated show.

And the fight—their struggle—was hers to control.

They circled each other now, slower—cautious. The storm of rage that had once clouded their vision was beginning to settle into something colder, sharper. Jaxon’s breath came in ragged gasps, his face bruised, blood trickling from a split brow. Dorian’s chest ached with every movement, his arm throbbing, but his grip on the katana had returned—firm, resolute.

For a second, nothing moved.

Then Jaxon lunged again, a wild, desperate attack, fists flying with the last of his strength.

But Dorian had seen it coming.

With one fluid motion, he sidestepped, pivoted, and brought the flat of the blade crashing into Jaxon’s ribs—knocking the wind out of him.

Jaxon stumbled, coughing, but Dorian didn’t let up.

He spun the blade in his hand, brought the hilt down hard on the back of Jaxon’s shoulder, sending him crashing to his knees.

Jaxon groaned, trying to rise, but his body wouldn’t obey.

Dorian stood over him, katana raised—not to kill, but to make it clear.

He had won.

The arena was silent except for the sound of their breathing.

Jaxon looked up, face twisted in pain and defeat. “Do it,” he hissed, almost begging. “End it. Isn’t that what she wants?”

Dorian’s gaze flicked up—to the matriarch, who leaned forward, hungry for the kill.

His grip on the blade tightened.

Then—he lowered it.

“No,” he said, voice quiet but unshakable. “You’re not dying for her amusement. Not today.”

He turned his back on Jaxon, walking toward the edge of the arena, each step echoing with finality. He knew what that choice meant. It wasn’t mercy.

It was defiance.

Above them, the matriarch rose slowly from her seat, her eyes narrowing, lips pressed into a thin line.

“You disappoint me,” she said coldly.

Dorian didn’t look at her.

“I’m not here to entertain you anymore,” he replied. “I never was.”

The words hung in the air like smoke—defiant, dangerous.

Dorian turned his back to both Jaxon and the blood-stained arena floor. He walked with a slow, deliberate pace toward the small pedestal where the black invitation lay. The very thing they’d been forced to fight for, like dogs scrambling for scraps under their mother’s table.

He leaned down, blood dripping from his chin, his fingers closing around the invitation with a calm, final certainty.

“I win,” he said quietly, lifting it up for all to see. “He can’t make it.”

He turned and looked at Jaxon—his brother now slumped against the wall of the arena, one arm hanging limp, chest heaving with shallow breaths, sweat and blood soaking through his shirt.

“Just look at your favorite son,” Dorian continued, his voice sharpened by exhaustion and contempt. “He’s barely breathing.”

From above, the matriarch stood at the edge of the arena’s door. For once, she said nothing.

Her silence was louder than any command.

The guards exchanged tense glances but stayed rooted to their posts.

Dorian’s eyes locked with hers. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t bow. Didn’t offer a single shred of submission.

“You made us fight,” he said. “You always did. But I won’t keep playing your games.”

He slipped the black invitation into his coat pocket, turned, and began walking toward the heavy iron doors that led out of the underground arena.

He didn’t look back at Jaxon.

He didn’t look back at her.

And for the first time in years, Dorian Gates walked away—not as a pawn, not as a son desperate to please—but as something far more dangerous.

A man who had nothing left to lose… and no one left to fear.